Dirty
by Last of the Loneliness
Summary: Nathan finds a mentor. Mark finds a target.
**A/N: AO3's really ahead of FF in terms of tagging, so I suppose I need to restate everything here. Warning for Jefferson/Nathan, obviously, underage drinking, referenced drug use, implied self-harm. The second-to-last part contains an intoxicated sex scene (uh, Nathan is intoxicated. I was not intoxicated while I wrote it. I am, regrettably, not of drinking age. Wait, neither is he...) that is quite vaguely described, but that's the only actual sexual part. The rest is...overtones? Undertones? I don't know. It's late and I need to sleep.**

 **In any case, I hope you enjoy this, and reviews are always appreciated!**

* * *

Mark Jefferson's work hasn't ever really done anything for Nathan. Victoria's got one of his collections, and she showed it to him with trust in her face, but he didn't care for it. Endless pages of women looking out at him, black and white. It was boring, maybe, or he just didn't know what everybody else saw in it, but somehow he felt uneasy looking at them. He scoffed, and Victoria took the book back, her mouth stretched thin and her eyes cold again.

But the man himself is a different story. An escapee of Arcadia Bay. He got out and made himself known in the wide world beyond. That's the dream, isn't it? Leave all this shit behind and spit on it. Nathan's admired the story more than he's ever admired the work. Arcadia Bay is his future. Sean Prescott is building more castles to add to the empire he's going to pass down to his son. His life is all planned out, but Nathan can't help but fantasize about breaking the bars. Destroy it all, say _to hell with it,_ and get the fuck out. Mark Jefferson did it, and now Kristine's done it too, so there must be some hope for him, right?

So he's incapable of understanding why Mark Jefferson would come back, why anyone would come back. The man must not be that smart. Didn't he feel it? Didn't he understand that this was a hopeless place, a place for dead ends, only really a future for those lucky few who carried the name Prescott like a badge of honor?

He doesn't know how he feels about the man himself for a long time either. The first time they meet, Mark Jefferson gives him the same feelings as his photographs. Exactly what he expected. Jefferson dresses like a professional and smiles like he's expected to smile. He holds himself with confidence. The first time they meet, Nathan is lurking at his father's side. Sean Prescott and Mark Jefferson shake hands, and they have the exact same smile on their face. Mrs. Prescott is overseas, out of the picture like she almost always is. A family is a thing to be held at arm's length.

"Welcome back to Arcadia Bay," Sean Prescott says. Jovial. So fucking friendly.

"It's good to be back." Like a script. Nathan stares across the room. Nothing here interests him. He's stitched to his father's side, as much an accessory as the tie. "I'm told you were instrumental in making the position, so I have you to thank."

Sean Prescott laughs and waves a hand. _It's nothing at all._ "I'm happy to help Blackwell Academy. Those kids are the future stars of Arcadia Bay."

Victoria and her family are across the hall. She's been desperately excited ever since she heard the news. She keeps it on the inside, of course, but Nathan can tell. She tries to play it so casually. Feeling too much is unsightly, isn't it? She prefers to be a statue.

"And speaking of..." Mark Jefferson's attention has moved on to Nathan, but he's not paying attention.

Victoria catches his eye and gives him a quick smile. Nathan forms a grimace. Then his father's hand is on his arm and squeezing, and he jumps back to the present.

"Right, my mistake. This is Nathan, my son. He'll be going to Blackwell in a year." Sean Prescott doesn't let go of his son's arm.

"Nice to meet you." The words come out all wrong, too fast and under his breath, and Nathan's hand is cold and shaky when he extends it for a handshake. He hopes Jefferson doesn't mistake it for nerves. Nathan doesn't care about this place or the man in front of him. He's somewhere far away. He's been working on trying not to feel anything at all.

"Likewise, Nathan," Mark Jefferson says, and he shakes his hand. He's very warm. He smiles, and their eyes meet, and _just like with the pictures_ Nathan gets the feeling like he's missing something.

"He's quite the little photographer, so I'm sure he'll have plenty to learn from you." The words are loathsome as they curl off his father's tongue. Nathan wants to disappear.

"Oh? I'd love to see your work." Fake fake fake. This is all a fucking construction. Nathan feels like the room is spinning. He hates it all.

"Yeah." Rude. He doesn't care. Nathan turns away.

* * *

Nathan doesn't want to share his pictures, not really. Many of his favorites he's never even shown Victoria. They sit in a pile in his desk drawer and gather dust. He doesn't like looking at them very often. Each time, he's afraid when he looks, they'll all turn out to be shit. He's scared of the day when he realizes they were shit all along, and he just wasn't smart enough to see it.

But he doesn't really have much of a choice, not when his father is sitting there. So he reluctantly fetches some of the ones he's not too ashamed of. A lot of his photos end up in the shredder or going up in flames. It just takes one glance too many and he can't stand looking at them anymore. Victoria's told him not to, asked him what he's going to do when he needs a portfolio, but he ignores her.

He expects compliments. That's why Mark Jefferson asked, isn't it? Flattery as far as the eye can see. Everybody in this town is fake. Nathan gets sugar from everyone else and vitriol from his father. There's only one person he thinks doesn't care about his name, and he doubts her sometimes too.

"These are dramatic," are the first words out of Jefferson's mouth. Nathan's mouth is open to say something before he realizes he doesn't have anything to say. Somehow it felt like an accusation, even though the tone was mild. He wants to defend himself, but he has nothing.

"His outlet, I think," Sean Prescott says, as if Nathan isn't there.

His lip is bleeding where he has bitten through. He enjoys the taste more than he should. He sucks the little gash to make up for the hollow emptiness where words should be.

"Good framing on this one," Jefferson notes. The photo is of a dead squirrel, roadkill, with black asphalt giving way to a blue, blue sky. The animal is matted red and brown and hardly recognizable. Nathan remembers pushing and prodding it until it looked just right. There was blood on his hands and incoherent thoughts of rabies, but the picture was more important.

He needs to burn it. He needs to burn the whole stack. His father's eyes are lingering on the pictures, too, and it feels like they're looking at Nathan rather than his images. He doesn't want to be there. The living room is as huge as it ever was, but the walls are closing in around him. He needs to go to his room, or better yet, get in his car and _drive._ Smoke until he can't remember why he freaked out.

"You have a good eye," Jefferson says, carefully straightening the stack and handing them back to Nathan. He doesn't want to touch them. He runs his fingers along the edges, pricking at the corners. "But they're directionless, aimless."

 _Go fuck yourself,_ he almost spits. His father's eyes are on him. He breathes in and out. He can't remember what he's doing here. Why does this man matter?

"That's quite a compliment coming from you," Sean Prescott says. The warning in his voice forces Nathan to speak.

"Thanks," he says. His throat is dry. He hopes it sounds sarcastic, even though he knows he would probably regret sarcasm later.

The two men seem to talk for what feels like forever as Nathan sits on the couch and tries not to spiral away. He clutches the photographs and hopes for paper cuts. His lip is still bleeding. It won't stop; he won't let it stop.

At long last, Mark Jefferson excuses himself, and the Prescotts walk him to the door. He pulls on his coat and shakes Sean's hand. He's almost gone when he seems to remember the lesser Prescott.

"Thanks for showing me your work." He extends a hand. Nathan, reluctantly, shakes it. Something other than skin slides against his fingers. There's a piece of paper. Nathan balls it in his fist before Sean can notice. Then Mark Jefferson is out the door, and at long last it's silent again.

Nathan reads the note when he's alone up in his room.

 _If you need anything, or just want to talk, call me._

He doesn't bother putting the number in his phone. He rips the paper into pieces and tosses them across the room. He looks at the stack of pictures before they go the same way.

 _Directionless. Aimless._

He yanks open his desk drawer with such force it almost comes out. There are the other photos, the ones he thought were his best. On top is a picture of Victoria. She's slightly blurry, looking away from the camera, crying. She was furious when she realized he'd taken the shot. That was one of their biggest fights.

All of them are shit. He flicks his lighter to life and watches Victoria's crying face burn and distort. Shit, shit, shit. He's useless. Worthless. He dreams of setting his desk on fire, setting the house and his father and his life on fire.

If Mark Jefferson had given him compliments, surely they would have sounded fake. But Nathan doesn't know why their absence hurts so much anyway.

* * *

Arcadia Bay is exactly the same as he remembers it, almost eerily so. He's heard a lot about the increasing homogeneity of America throughout his professional life, about all places slowly losing their distinctness, but this town stands to contradict that. His return brings with it the odd feeling that he's slipped through time. It's not nostalgia; he doesn't miss his past here. But it's weird nonetheless, like he could effortlessly resume a life he left decades ago.

He's larger than the town now. He sees it in the eyes and faces of everybody who talks to him. Nobody asks the question out loud, though he can see they're all dying to. _Why come back here? What does this place have for you?_

The answer isn't really that complicated.

Sean Prescott hasn't changed much either. He's only a handful of years older than Mark, and Mark remembers seeing him swagger about the school, and the town, when they were young. They were never friends, never even really acquaintances. But Mark, and everybody else in Arcadia Bay, knew him. Now he's grown up, still walking with the confidence that lets everyone know he owns them.

It's all vaguely disgusting to Mark. Arcadia Bay is a tiny blight in the corner of America. Outside of its confines, the name Prescott means nothing. Mark ascended beyond this place. Sean descended to its level.

But he plays the game anyway, just like everybody else. He might think himself above it, but when he's here, he's still bound by the town's rules. He wants things from the Prescotts, so he plays along and smiles and laughs.

From the first meeting it becomes evident to him that the surest chink in the armor isn't Sean after all.

In some ways Nathan Prescott is exactly like his father when he was young. The confidence is there, the knowledge that the town is his and he's untouchable. But there's something distinct in him too. Mark sees it in the way Nathan's hands shake, in the way his eyes move about a room like he's looking for a way out. If Sean's a gun, efficient and precise, then Nathan's a bomb, loosely rigged and sure to take out bystanders.

It's exciting.

The boy is about as touchy as a landmine, too. In some ways Mark would like nothing better than to set him off and enjoy the explosion, but he is well-trained in patience. There will always be time for a detonation later.

Nathan's prickliness makes it clear that he's used to people treating him like an extension of the Prescott family wallet. Mark supposes that the mixture of awe and hate must be an interesting struggle to contend with. All the people in the town spit on the name Prescott, but they'd turn and take from it in a heartbeat. He would, too. He intends to take as much as he wants.

Nathan Prescott takes pictures of death as if there's something novel about it. A sad little obsession. With so many dead animals, Mark can't help but wonder whether the boy killed some of them himself. It's all too over-the-top. Dramatic, just like he tells him. The only pictures of death worth taking are those in the moment. Bullet through the head. Authenticity.

He could show him.

Mark notices the scars on Nathan's forearm, even if they're visible for just a moment. And caught between father and son, he wonders what an ordinary person would do in this situation.

 _He_ prepares to handle explosives with care.

* * *

The car smells the way cars should smell. Nathan's SUV was a gift with his license, a car he picked out himself, and he loves it. But this sleek little sedan is powerful in its own way. It makes him wonder whether he was trying too hard. There are other ways to communicate power than through size and force.

Nathan leans back, lets his head loll against the headrest, and wishes it would never stop driving. It's weird to have someone else behind the wheel for once. But Nathan is content to stare out the window and watch Arcadia Bay flash past in the colors of autumn as they wind away from the Prescott manor.

He doesn't really give a shit about nature photos, but the real thing is nice to look at anyway.

His hands aren't shaking for once. He thanks the weed for his unusual good mood. If Mark Jefferson noticed it when he picked him up, he didn't say anything. Nathan doesn't really try to hide the smell any longer. It's something of a challenge to his father. Usually Sean ignores it, unless he's in a bad mood.

 _What are they going to do, arrest me?_ Nathan remembers saying once, remembers the twitch in his father's cheek. Cocky, Sean called him, and Nathan won't pretend it's not an apt description.

"What is this shit?" he asks, raising a hand to gesture at the radio.

Mark Jefferson smiles, but he doesn't divert his attention from the road in front of them to respond. He looks more casual today than Nathan has seen him before, his suit coat absent and replaced with a canvas jacket.

"Not a fan of jazz?"

Nathan wants to ask whether Jefferson is even a fan of jazz, or whether he just thinks he should be. It's all a little too perfect.

"Based on this, no," he says, but the man driving doesn't change the station.

"My car, my music."

It's the same rule Nathan and his friends practice, so he accepts without a fuss. It's not even really that bad. Maybe he just objected to see how Jefferson would react.

"Where are we going? Your studio?"

"No, Nathan, we're going to the wild: downtown Arcadia Bay." He still sounds amused. He's still smiling, anyway.

"You shoot on-site?" All his most famous pictures are studio works, models and backgrounds, artificial scenes.

"I shoot everywhere. And based on what I saw from you, you'd rather work outside."

Nathan shrugs, forgetting that Jefferson isn't looking at him. "Haven't done much in a studio. Haven't really had the chance."

"Oh? Well, we can change that sometime." They're out of the woods now, back into the familiar buildings that compose this seaside hamlet. Nathan stares out at the water. In his lap, his hands are absentmindedly fiddling with his camera. "I'd like to take another look at your portfolio sometime, just the two of us."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Nathan snorts. "Got rid of it." He wonders whether he would have admitted that if he was completely sober. As it is, he doesn't regret it.

Jefferson actually does glance away from the road to look at him then. "Why?"

"You were right. They were shit," he says casually. Nathan doesn't think he'll ever take a really good photo. Sooner or later, he'll hate all of them. Nothing is meant to last. A career can't be built on shredded pictures, but he's not worried about that far ahead. The future is vague, carrying only the dream and promise of freedom.

"I didn't say they were shit. I didn't think it either, for the record. And even if you aren't happy with your work, you should keep it," Mark Jefferson says, and _God_ he sounds like a teacher now, and even in his good mood it rubs Nathan the wrong way.

"Why, so I can look back at it when I'm older and see how far I've come?" he asks, mocking, and then lets his laugh spill untamed through the car. Restraint is a mask abandoned at his father's side. Everywhere else, Nathan is _unstoppable._

Jefferson doesn't seem disturbed. He's smiling out at the road. "Okay, fair enough. I used to throw away my work too. Thought it was always lacking something...that it was never good enough. I look at magazines with my work in them sometimes and wish I'd never published it."

"Yeah, so what's the point then? Why try to get better if better's never going to be good enough?" This is a thought for Hayden and Victoria and late nights with plenty of alcohol in his system, but for some reason he feels comfortable.

"For me, it became about capturing moments. If I could encapsulate a piece of time perfectly in a shot, then it wouldn't matter how I felt after. My emotions, the scene's emotions, they would all be in the frame. A self-containing world."

The car rolls to a stop in a parking lot. Over the buildings, Nathan recognizes the sign of the Two Whales Diner. The sea is much closer to them now, and even before Jefferson turns off the car Nathan can hear the waves and the seagulls.

"And did you do it?" Nathan's not used to talking to anyone but Victoria about photography. It's weird, but he can't deny that it's kind of nice.

"You tell me. I'm assuming you've seen my work." Jefferson shrugs and unbuckles his seat belt, opens the door, and gets out. Nathan sits a little bit longer.

 _You didn't capture shit. It's just pixels. It's all in your head._

He gets out of the car. Mark Jefferson is removing his equipment from the trunk. He gives Nathan a smile.

"Ready to photograph the real wildlife of Arcadia Bay, Nathan?"

"Sure, Jefferson." He refuses to add the _mister,_ though the result does make him feel a bit awkward. He refuses to let the flush spill across his cheeks.

Mark Jefferson raises an eyebrow. "Just Mark is fine."

* * *

He resents Kristine for leaving, but he couldn't ever hate his sister, not really, even if he can't call her half as often as he wants to, even if her absence has left a void where a wall used to stand between him and his father. He used to be a lot angrier at her, but lately he feels more at peace with it.

Lately everything's been better.

Victoria's told him he seems more mellow, and even Hayden managed to notice despite his near-constant state of inebriation. The past two visits he's actually been able to give an honest _no_ when Dr. Jacoby's asked if he's had any serious thoughts of harming himself or others. The doctor probably patted himself on the back for prescribing the right shit, but Nathan thinks he knows the real reason, even if he's reluctant to admit it to himself.

 _Nate,_

 _It's great to hear from you, as always! Sorry I didn't write back quicker. The internet's kind of flaky when you're tromping around a jungle. I'm actually missing Oregon weather. That's a sentence I never thought I'd type._

 _The pics are awesome! I'm so happy you felt comfortable enough to send them. Black-and-white's a new thing for you, isn't it? Not that I know anything about photography, but I think they're pretty damn cool. Keep it up and send me more, okay? I always want to see anything you're working on._

 _You should show Dad. I know he's been kind of an asshole about you wanting to be a photographer, but these shots would change anyone's mind. And he needs to see that you have talent. But if he doesn't appreciate them, screw him._

 _Hey, I heard about that famous photographer coming back to Arcadia Bay. Have you talked to him at all? Exciting things happening up there, little brother!_

 _Write me soon! (I know, I'm a hypocrite. :P)_

 _Kristine_

Distance lends itself optimism, no doubt, but for the first time in his life Nathan thinks he might be comfortable enough to take Kristine's advice. The last time Sean Prescott saw his son's photos was when he and Nathan and Mark Jefferson sat together in the living room. Nathan knows his father doesn't give a shit. He'll support Nathan's _little hobby_ financially without ever bothering to invest an ounce of emotion.

Even the idea of Sean looking at his pictures has always felt intrusive. Showing too much. When Nathan was young, quite young, he tried, and he still remembers the cursory glance and throwaway acknowledgement his father gave him.

" _Very cute, Nathan."_

But he's not ashamed anymore. They aren't shit. How could they be, when guiding hands helped him take them, when Mark Jefferson looked at them and smiled and said Nathan had improved a great deal?

Sean Prescott is in his office, as it seems he almost always is. So many of Nathan's memories of his father are in this room, with its high ceiling and elegant light fixtures, beautiful wood furniture that probably cost enough to buy a house. The dull eyes of a dead stag's head, mounted on the wall, glint in the reddish light. It's a souvenir from years and years ago, before Nathan was born. Sean's stopped hunting wild animals.

His father is clicking through something on the computer while his hand impatiently drums the tabletop. He looks up when Nathan enters, nods and gives a perfunctory smile. Lately all his efforts have been going to acquiring the rights for some park land he intends to turn into a real estate project. There've been a lot of lawyers, a lot of late night phone calls. Nathan doesn't doubt Sean will get his way sooner or later, but in the meantime it makes for a short temper.

"Long day?"

"It wouldn't have to be if people knew how to reply to their messages," Sean says. Nathan knows he's not being reprimanded in this instance, but it's hard not to feel prickly when his father has scolded him for this before. "What is it?"

"I wanted to show you what I've been doing with...Mark." His hands are shaking. His hands are always shaking. He can't tell whether it's nerves or not. Nathan has become accustomed to feeling everything at once, and it becomes difficult to differentiate one thing from another.

It shouldn't be nervousness. When it comes to his father, Nathan mostly feels resignation and anger. But this is out of his comfort zone.

"Yeah? He been teaching you a lot?" Sean shifts, pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. Nathan hesitates a moment longer, though he's already committed himself, and then holds out the small stack of prints.

The photos hover between the two of them for an instant, and then they're in Sean's hand, and then Nathan is regretting this.

Sean flips through them. Cursory. Nathan feels each second tick by for an eternity, but he knows hardly any time has passed.

Sean Prescott nods, straightens them, and hands them back.

"Nice."

Then his attention is back on the computer.

Nathan should accept the dismissal. A compliment is a compliment, even if it's fucking meaningless, even if his father makes it evidently clear that he doesn't actually give a shit. He showed them. He did what he came to do, and now he should go.

But Nathan Prescott has never been good at doing exactly what he should do.

"That's it?"

Sean turns back to him, his perfunctory smile gone.

"I'm really busy here, Nathan."

And it's the first time that Nathan's shown him his work in _years,_ and Nathan was actually interested in trying, and now his stomach is in knots and all that hope and expectancy means nothing at all. This is how it always is. Why the fuck was he stupid enough to think it was different? Why did he let Kristine talk him into this?

"I just thought you'd be more interested is all," he says quietly. If it was anyone else, Nathan would be erupting, but he knows control around his father.

"What do you want me to say? You know I don't know anything about photography." Sean takes off his reading glasses and polishes them on his sleeve. His face is setting into stern lines. These are all warnings.

Nathan has no answer to that. What did he want his father to say? He doesn't even know. All he knows is that he wanted something else.

"Do you want me to tell you how nice I think they are? Do you want me to flatter you? If you just want compliments, go ask any of _them._ " Sean gestures expansively with one arm, and Nathan knows he means the people beyond the house. "I care enough to be honest with you."

Nathan ignores every danger sign in favor of charging brashly ahead. He's here, and he's already gone out on a limb, and he's going to keep going even if it breaks under his weight.

"You just don't give a shit." He looks away from his father's face, but even in his peripheral vision he can see Sean's eyebrows furrow.

"You think I don't care, Nathan? You think I'm working as hard as I do because I like it? I'm building Pan Estates for you. I'm building this town for you." Sean shifts out of his chair, leveling both hands on the desk between them. Nathan resists the urge to back away. "I bring a world-renowned photographer to your future school and you have the gall to tell me I don't give a shit? Who bought that camera? I'm working for your future, Nate, and I think I deserve a bit more gratitude for that."

"Don't fucking kid yourself! All of that—all of this is about _you!_ I never asked for any of that!" Nathan's eyes are burning, and it's humiliating. _Don't cry don't cry don't cry—_ "All I asked was for you to look at my fucking pictures and at least pretend you care!"

Sean's eyes flash, his lips tighten, and Nathan knows he's gone too far. The feeling of weightlessness spirals through him and he wonders with some sort of sick masochistic excitement what's going to happen next, what it's going to be today.

"If you want to talk about disappointment, maybe you should start with a look in the mirror," Sean says. He straightens. He's taller than Nathan and broad in the shoulders, and in this moment he seems like a giant. Nathan is suddenly glad for the desk between them. "Forget your damn pictures, Nathan. I've gotten five calls in the past four weeks about your behavior at school. I'm not going to touch your grades because I think you're at least smart enough to be ashamed of those. And last week I have to pull favors with the police because you've gotten caught with cocaine."

He strides around the desk and it's an instinct for Nathan not to flinch, but Sean just walks to the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob and turns back again.

"I build you an empire and you spit at my feet. You don't want all that I've done for you? Fine. Next time I'll let the police lock you up and teach you not to be an arrogant little pissant, since I've clearly done such a shit job of it."

Sean Prescott opens the door and gestures impatiently. Nathan's face is burning. Anger and guilt and shame and regret are filling him. He wants to kick his father's computer off the desk, rip up his papers, destroy everything around them. But he's already done too much, and fear holds him back from that edge. He walks obediently through the door with his head hanging.

It slams behind him.

His SUV smells like weed. A few nights ago Hayden was sitting in the passenger seat while they drove in aimless circles around the town. A few nights ago, a few _minutes_ ago, Nathan was on top of the world. Now he's slamming his fists into the steering wheel until his nerves are screaming for him to stop. He wants to smash his hands or his head through the windshield. This fucking car isn't big enough, and everything he's feeling is filling the air around him until he's sure he's going to suffocate.

His prints are laying in the passenger seat where he tossed them. They're slightly wrinkled from where his fingers dug in too hard.

His thoughts are a runaway train. He balls his hands up and hits himself, tangles his hands in his hair and pulls hard from the roots, lashes out at everything around him. There's nothing fucking breakable in this car, and all he wants to do is break something. His teeth dig into his lip and he wonders what his father would do if he went and drove off a cliff here and now. Maybe then Sean Prescott would feel like an asshole for what he'd said. Maybe it would serve him right.

Victoria doesn't answer her phone, and Nathan throws his own cell hard at the dashboard. It bounces off, somehow not broken, but he can't be bothered to retrieve it from the floor. What's the fucking point of Victoria if she's not there when he needs her?

The boys from his class flash through his mind. He thinks of the names of all the people he knows, all the people in his phone, all useless. Who are they? Where are they? Why does he bother with them? They're friends for days when the sailing is smooth. Now he's sitting alone and bleeding through the seams and the one person he relies on _won't answer her fucking phone—_

He's scrolling through his contacts in some sort of frenzied desperation when he lands upon a relatively new addition.

* * *

He's never seen Nathan like this before.

The boy is white and shaking, his mouth moving though words aren't coming out. There is a streak of blood on his lips where he's chewed through the skin. Light and darkness throw alternating flashes of color and shadow across him as they pass streetlights. He's throwing glares in every direction and won't meet Mark's eyes. Mark wonders whether he regrets making the call, though it's much too late now for regret.

He wears concern as a perfect mask and wishes he could take shots of this. Nathan is fucking beautiful as he comes apart in the moonlight. His eyes are overly bright. Mark would love to capture that, the red on his lips and the tears in his eyes, capture them forever.

He settles for grafting the images into his memory. It's too early to chase Nathan away with a camera.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, glancing away from the road. He's spent more time looking at Nathan than at traffic since they got in the car, but it's hard not to. Nobody else seems to be out, in any case.

"No," Nathan snaps through tight, bloody lips. "Take a right here."

Mark obeys. He doesn't really need an answer from Nathan to guess what's upsetting him, anyway. Even in their brief acquaintance, he's learned that there's not too much Nathan Prescott gives a shit about, but the hand of his father weighs heavily on him.

He doesn't really feel _sorry_ for Nathan, but he does feel somewhat vindicated to collect more evidence that Sean Prescott is an asshole.

"Where are we going?"

Nathan takes a long time to answer. Mark wonders whether he's taking another drink of whatever's in his flask, but when he looks over Nathan is just staring out the window. His reflection looks more distraught than angry now.

"It's not much longer," he says quietly.

They're snaking through the woods, away from the Prescott manor, away from Arcadia Bay. At first when Nathan told him to drive, Mark wondered whether he had some idea of going all the way to Portland, to Seattle, leaving this small town in the dust again. But it appears Nathan's goal is still within his father's reach after all. Maybe the boy doesn't dream big enough.

"It's here," Nathan says without warning, and Mark has to slam on the brakes in order to make the turn. There's a little gravel road snaking away from the asphalt, leading to a rusted gate. Beyond that, everything is shadows. The roof of some sort of building rises above the black trees.

"Just park. Nobody else comes here." Nathan issues the instructions, and before Mark's completely stopped the car, Nathan is out the door and walking away as if he couldn't stand to be still for much longer.

Mark follows, more slowly.

The place in front of him couldn't stand in starker contrast to the one they just left. It's an old barn with holes in the roof and siding. He hears the creaking of wood and thinks it might come down at any second. A perfect retreat for the boy who strides ahead.

There's a padlock on the door, but Nathan has a key in hand and has unlocked it before Mark crosses the distance. Nathan hesitates a second before sliding the door open. Maybe he's regretting coming here, sharing this place. But the hesitation lasts only a moment, and then the door is open, and there is no closing it again.

Nathan loses his inertia at last when the two of them are sitting on a wooden platform that Mark can only assume used to be a hayloft. There's a hole in the roof directly above them, a natural (if crude) skylight. The place smells like hay and rotting wood and dust.

Mark sits and watches. Nathan is no longer trembling as much. He takes slow, shaking breaths. He leans back against one of the wooden supports and stares up at the sky. It's a little cold, and Mark wasn't really planning on spending his night in a barn with Nathan Prescott, but it's more interesting than any alternative, so he doesn't interrupt the silence.

Eventually, his patience pays off.

"I shouldn't have fucking bothered," Nathan says aloud. He's looking over Mark's shoulder as if to pretend he's not talking to him.

Mark says nothing. He's testing the waters.

"He couldn't even lie. He couldn't make something up. He couldn't be bothered. He doesn't give a shit. I don't care what he says."

Nathan's tone grows more agitated. He runs his fingers haphazardly against the wooden platform on which they sit. Mark imagines splinters finding their way into his exposed skin.

"You're only here because you want something. Everybody—"

"No," Mark says. Nathan's head jerks toward him. The dim light reflects in his eyes. Damn, if only Mark had his camera. Memory is never as crisp and clean and accurate as the real thing. It's always tainted by something else.

"Don't lie to me," Nathan says. His voice comes out splintering and wrong.

"I don't make a habit of lying, Nathan. Your father's not pulling my strings. I meant it when I said you could call me, and I'm glad you did."

"Yeah, real fucking charitable of you," Nathan says, a hysterical laugh escaping him. He still won't meet Mark's gaze. He's winding up again. Mark can see it in the small twitches of his muscles, the slight jerking of his head.

"Charity? I'm not exactly a philanthropist. I _would_ be lying if I said I was here because I just care about people. But you...you have talent, Nathan. I saw it from the first. I couldn't stand to see it snuffed out. Not by your damn father, not by an overdose of your...medicine. I don't care about everybody, but I do care about you."

Nathan's eyes are overly bright when he looks up at last. Mark imagines he can see the struggle in his face, the struggle between what his paranoia tells him and what he desperately wants to believe. Mark thinks he knows which will win. He waits.

"They're worth something," Nathan says.

"Yes," Mark agrees, though he isn't quite sure what Nathan means.

"You said they were. Capturing moments. And it doesn't matter if he thinks they aren't. I don't need him. I don't need his approval."

"If your father doesn't care, it's his loss," Mark says. "There are other people who will see it. Who _have_ seen it."

Nathan crumples in on himself. His head bows and his shoulders shake. He's still very quiet, though. Mark hears the roar of the wind as it pushes against the walls of this old barn, threatening to bring the whole thing down.

Mark stands and takes deliberate steps across the old hayloft.

When he hugs Nathan, the boy leans into his touch, all his pretense of sharpness and brittleness gone. Mark lets his hands rub idle circles on Nathan's back. He can feel slow wetness seeping into his shirt where Nathan has buried his head.

It's an involuntary reaction when Mark smiles.

* * *

Mark slows to a crawl at the end of the road, and Nathan knows which house it is without needing to be told. Here at the edge of Arcadia Bay, there's more space, sprawling lawns and pretty houses like they're in fucking suburbia.

The driveway they pull into belongs to a single-story house with a flat roof. There are black steel accents and a good amount of glass, and it reminds Nathan vaguely of the handiwork of Frank Lloyd Wright. Compared to the Prescott estate, it's tiny, but somehow that seems all the more impressive. Nathan fleetingly wonders whether Sean was just overcompensating all this time.

(Mark makes Sean seem lacking in so many ways.)

But what he likes most about it is that it's February, and there're three inches of snow on the ground, and the world is black and white without him needing an artificial filter. As soon as he's out of the car, Nathan raises his camera.

"You're learning," Mark says, smiling, and he briefly rests his hand on Nathan's shoulder as he walks past. Nathan feels the touch long after the hand is gone, and then he realizes that he doesn't even care if the shots turn out.

The inside of the house, too, is sleek and impeccable. There is little color to be found, between the sleek black leather furniture and the white walls. It is the epitome of modern. Nathan almost feels as if he's stepped into one of Mark's photographs. He looks down at his clothes to make sure they still have color.

There's just a hint of Mark's cologne in the air when Nathan breathes in, and he decides anew that he likes the scent.

Living room, office, kitchen. Nathan wanders through the house and feels vaguely uncomfortable. He's not used to feeling like an outsider, like a guest. Somehow he's ended up in the only place in Arcadia Bay where he doesn't feel he owns it, and he thinks he likes the feeling.

"Something to drink?" Mark is by the fridge and pouring himself a seltzer. Nathan lets his eyes roam from the shiny granite countertop of the island around the room. There's a large print on canvas hanging on the wall, a nude woman looking away from the camera. Her hands are folded behind her back, and the focus emphasizes the scars on her forearms.

Nathan looks away.

This place is fucking _cold._

"Sure, I'll have a beer." He's used to projecting the snide and bravado into his voice, though something about Mark makes him certain the man sees right through it. That's what photography is, isn't it, seeing things how they are?

"If you really want to start drinking at two, you can do better than beer," Mark Jefferson says, eyebrow cocked, lips hinting at a smile. "I've got an aged whiskey around here somewhere."

Nathan is sure he's joking. He must be joking, right? He's a _teacher,_ after all, and surely he's old enough to have shed whatever rebellion he once enjoyed to embrace the straitlaced confines of adulthood. Sure, Nathan's used to adults looking the other way, but never really _encouraging_ him.

He realizes he's nervous about the same time that he realizes Mark isn't joking, and it would be fucking moronic to be nervous about something like a shot of whiskey, so he lifts his chin.

"Fine, I'll take that."

Mark smiles.

The next thing Nathan knows, they're sitting at a glass table in the office, a glass with ice and brown liquor in front of him, a portfolio open between them. Nathan doesn't think he likes whiskey. It tastes harsh and leaves his throat burning, but he'll be damned if he looks like a kid, so he swallows his coughs and swallows whiskey every time Mark sips from his own cup.

Looking at the pictures before him reminds him of when Victoria showed him one of Mark's collections. Here he is again with someone he trusts. But this time, he thinks he _gets_ them. The shots are the same as ever. Nathan is the one who's different. And it's hard not to see something more in them when Mark is talking about them, giving each a story, gesturing with one hand while his other rests around the back of Nathan's chair.

His cup is empty.

Mark refills it, pours himself some too.

Another portfolio. This one must be old, because it contains color, not the same black-and-white. The color surprises Nathan, like he had forgotten it existed after just a little while in this house. He wonders if these are published anywhere. He lets himself imagine that they aren't, that it's just him and Mark who have seen them.

How much would Victoria give, he wonders, to be in his place?

His throat is really burning now, and the liquid warmth has made its way to his stomach. Nathan's been drunk before, of course, but it seems like there was always Hayden cheering him on with his own bottle in hand or Victoria, steady no matter how much she drank. Now it's just him and the arm on the back of his chair, a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't know how long the hand has been there. He doesn't remember it moving. He doesn't remember how much he's drunk.

Mark turns a page. Nathan almost hasn't been paying attention to the photographs, but he is now. It's black-and-white again, all shots of the same woman. Her eyes are glassy and staring, but as the photos go on, fear twists her face into a mask. There are tears running from the corners of her eyes and her mouth is open. And then she's still and expressionless again, staring at the camera as if she can't really see it, the brightness of her eyes the only evidence left of her crying.

Nathan feels kind of sick. His favorite shots have long been images of people— _women—_ in pain, grotesque and nude and contorted, the kind of thing he only feels comfortable looking at alone in his room with his fly undone, the kind of thing that always left him feeling sort of guilty afterward. But those were always so staged, so artificial.

This is so much more real and intimate that he just wants to look away.

He keeps looking because he doesn't want to look weak.

"She was one of my best models," Mark murmurs, and the word _models_ gives Nathan some small relief even if his heart is still going too fast. "Avery."

"I'd be better," Nathan blurts.

Mark looks amused. "I thought you belonged on the other side of the lens?"

Oh. Nathan frowns a little bit. He can't really remember why he said it or what he said or what he said it in response to. His head is buzzing pleasantly. There is just the hand on his shoulder and a cup of whiskey and a girl's horrified face captured for eternity and staring up at him.

"Why'd you let me drink so much?" He tries to laugh, tries to make it sound like a joke, like he is under control.

"I thought you were old enough to make your own choices, Nathan," Mark says with a quizzical smile.

He is old enough to make his own choices. He can't believe he said it. Maybe Sean was right all along, and he's nothing more than a whiny brat. And because he wants to prove he _isn't_ , and because he doesn't want to keep looking at that bitch in the portfolio, and probably for a lot of other reasons too, he leans in and lets their lips touch.

It tastes like whiskey. The beard is scratchy against his chin. Nathan thinks of the kisses he and Victoria have shared, some playful, some not. He thinks about the other girls he's kissed at parties, mostly to prove he could.

This is not like those.

He forgets he needs to breathe. He forgets everything else. He digs himself a home in the man before him and tries to crawl inside of it. His hands are as greedy and desperate as his mouth. He doesn't know what he's doing or why he's doing it, but it feels good and Nathan doesn't want to stop.

His arm catches the bottle of whiskey. The sound it makes when it hits the table seems as loud as thunder. Brown spills across the glass.

" _Damn_ it, Nathan!"

Mark Jefferson pushes him away. There is a look on his face that Nathan hasn't seen there before. In an instant the world shifts. He draws in on himself. He's fucked up, ruined something good, managed to undo in a second what he's been trying to build up for months. He remembers to breathe, but oxygen doesn't stop the room from oscillating about him. Fear and anger and hate coalesce in his mind.

 _fuck you look what you did you ruined everything again you fuck up everything you touch this is why nobody cares about you this is why nobody wants you you will never be worth anything do you think money can save you now_

"Nathan," that voice says, but Nathan can't look at him. He can't see disappointment and anger on that face. He doesn't belong here and he needs to _get out._

A hand on his shoulder and Nathan finally looks up. Mark is smiling, a little sheepish. His glasses gleam in the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows.

"Nathan, it's fine. See?" His other hand holds the portfolio, undamaged, unstained.

Nathan takes a long, shuddering breath and tries to make the world come screeching to a halt. It's hard. Terror and the exhilaration of relief, back-to-back, leave him spinning anyway.

"I'm sorry. Shouldn't have snapped. These are only prints, after all. You just startled me."

"I'm sorry," Nathan says. His mind begins the slow return to normalcy.

"For what?" Mark chuckles and shakes his head. "You already made it up to me." Then his arms are braced on either side of Nathan's chair, and he's leaning down, and the second contact finally brings the world back to steadiness.

The bedroom is as black-and-white as the rest of the house, but the windows are larger. The sunlight falls in and illuminates more huge prints on the wall. Nathan looks and looks and looks at them and thinks they're the best photographs he's ever seen. He looks while teeth graze his throat and while the scratchiness of the beard makes its way down his bare chest.

The sheets are very soft when he gathers them in his fists. He doesn't know what time it is or even really where he is. Nathan is lost in the sunlight, heady and floating away. His world has ground to a halt. He feels every second in the skin under his fingers. He is loose and open. Sometimes his eyes catch the eyes of the face above him, and it looks different when unadorned with glasses.

This is all silent and unreal. It can't be reality. Nathan doesn't think he's ever felt like this before. The lowest lows make for the highest highs, and in the moment there is just him and the sun and sensation pouring from him like blood.

(Somehow the sheets don't stain.)

* * *

He ends the call and sighs, pleased. Construction is almost finished. He can't wait to see what it'll look like without scaffolding and tape everywhere, without workmen crowding it. He can't wait to use it...watch Nathan use it.

Such an easy thing after all. The boy isn't a bomb any longer. Mark holds him without the need for care. He could toss him without an explosion.

Nathan will be excited to hear the news. They've spent vast scads of time photographing together over the past year, but the studio's completion marks the beginning of something new. It is their own world, away from Sean Prescott and Arcadia Bay and all the demons that make Nathan's hands tremble when Mark isn't around.

Mark thinks coming to Blackwell, too, staying in the dorms instead of at home, will help Nathan. He feels some sort of vindictive pride in loosening Sean's grip on the boy. He's released the collar from Nathan's neck.

(affixed his own there instead.)

When he strides into the classroom, it's mostly new faces before him. A few stand out: Nathan's friend Victoria, her hair sweeping down her back and her smile edged with something sharp; a girl with distant eyes and a feather dangling from one ear; a boy whose quizzical smile says he doesn't think he has anything to learn from the class.

Nathan is sitting next to Victoria. He looks well-rested for a change, though that's one improvement Mark can't claim credit for.

Their eyes meet, Nathan's face lightens somehow, and Mark's mind is far away in the renovated bunker of an old barn, in photographs and pieces of time he's left behind him.

Mr. Jefferson smiles.


End file.
